Hippolyte awoke; she saw him confusedly, without thinking, still sleeping; she nestled close up to him, with an almost unconscious movement.
"Of what were you dreaming?" he asked her, in a changed voice which seemed to reverberate his heart-beats.
"I do not know," she answered, languid, still drowsy, leaning her cheek on her lover's breast. "I don't remember."
She fell asleep again.
Under the soft pressure of her cheek, George remained motionless, with a dull rancor at the bottom of his soul. He felt himself a stranger to her, isolated from her, uselessly curious. All his bitter recollections came back to him in a tumult. He lived over again, in a single instant, his miseries of two years. He could oppose nothing to the immense doubts which crushed his soul and made the head of his loved one seem as heavy as a rock.
Suddenly Hippolyte started a second time, moaned, twisted, cried again. And she opened her eyes, frightened, groaning.
"Oh! my God!"
"What ails you? Of what were you dreaming?"
"I do not know."
Her face was contracted convulsively.